by Nelson Nye
With another brisk nod he went over to Honey. Frank stared after him like a man in a dream. Wolverton, coming up, said, “Nice going, Marshal,” and clapped Frank on the shoulder.
Frank finished his meal in a kind of a daze. He probably didn’t taste one thing he put into him. He got up when he’d finished and left a silver dollar beside his plate. He was halfway back to the office before, with a scowl, he remembered Chip Gurden. He shrugged and crossed over, intending to wait at the Opal; then he saw Abbie Burks.
She owned the Bon Ton Millinery and, according to the way Frank had got it, was the orphaned niece of rancher John Arnold. She was in her middle twenties and was not a bad looker. The trouble with Abbie, Frank had always imagined, was that she couldn’t get over her New England raising. She probably wanted a man bad as any woman, he reckoned, but those she could catch she held off with her stiffness and those she’d have taken wanted something more cozy to warm their beds of a night. Frank had watched her at dances — had even swung her himself, but it had been like hauling around a becorseted flapjack. She hadn’t spoke ten words the whole time he had hold of her. When the fiddles had quit Frank had said, “Thanks — Prudence,” and gone off and got plastered.
But she seemed glad to see him this morning, actually breaking out a smile, though he could see it was quite a strain. When she held out a hand Frank perversely grabbed and pumped it like she was leaving him her will. Her cheeks got pink and flustered. “My — ” she said as if she’d just run a mile, “you certainly gave this town something to talk about! I — I do wish you well, Frank. Uncle John was saying — ”
“He still around town?”
“I — why, yes — I think so.”
Now what the hell would she blush about that for? She said, her lips pale, “Please let go of my hand, Frank.”
“Hell, I washed this morning — took a bath in the hotel.”
Anger brightened her eyes and she twisted away from him. “You don’t understand — you don’t even try!” And then her voice broke. “You don’t know what it’s like to — ”
“Abbie,” he said, “don’t work so damn hard at it.”
An indescribable look came over her face and without another word she hurried off toward her shop.
Frank rubbed his jaw. “Women!” he said, and cut back toward the jail. Then he remembered the ride he’d got mapped out to take and went along to the livery. While he was saddling his dun the owner, Fentriss, came up. Frank twisted his head. “You seen Arnold this morning?”
“Nope,” Fentriss said. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. Lost John, hev you? Chip can’t find his piano pounder, either.”
Frank led the dun out and climbed into the saddle. Then he remembered the rifle he had left in the Opal, and rode back to the hotel and got down and went in. The rifle, of course, was only Frank’s excuse for another look at Honey, but she and her Dad had already left. He spotted Gurden paring his nails at a table with two others who had just started eating. One was Ben Holliday (coffins and furniture); the other was McFell who owned the Blue Flag. Gurden said, grinning, “McFell thinks your gun law ain’t got enough teeth in it.”
“I’ll put the teeth in it,” Frank said, “never worry.” He put his eyes on Chip grimly. “I left a rifle in your place.”
“Yeah. It’s back of the bar. You aim to pay for that lamp?”
Frank tossed two coins on the table, lips twisting. “Where was you when I came back a while later?”
“Pounding my ear, I guess.”
“You must sleep like the dead.”
Gurden smiled thinly. “I sleep all right.” He rolled the cigar across his teeth. “Now why don’t you ask me what my place was doing open?”
“Suppose you tell me.”
“Well, it seems like I had some company. Somebody tried to get into my safe. When are you going to start earning your money?”
“I suppose,” Frank said, “he went off with that paper.”
“That’s exactly what he did.” Gurden’s winkless eyes mocked him. “But, being’s I had a witness to the deal, I don’t look for any trouble when it comes to taking over.”
“You didn’t say anything about a witness last night.”
“Last night I had Brackley’s signature. Remember?”
Frank leaned across the table, glance truculent. “You don’t give a damn for the truth, do you, Gurden?”
“Oh, it’s true enough,” Chip said. “Go and look at the safe. You prob’ly scared him away when you come after that lamp. About all I can figure he got off with is five hundred dollar bills and Jace’s paper. When I went in there about an hour ago I found this on the floor.” He pulled a wadded-up square of cloth out of his pocket.
Frank shook the thing out and felt his stomach turn over. It was a neckscarf, pale blue, with a design of yellow horseshoes. Frank had seen it last night around the throat of Tularosa.
Chavez, as Frank swung into the saddle, cut across from the gun shop still carrying his shotgun. “What’s new with Boss Gurden?”
Frank’s stare swept the storefronts. He told Chavez what he had just learned from Gurden and showed him the scarf. “It’s his wipe,” Frank said bitterly.
The Mexican shrugged. “Chip might of picked that up anyplace.” He twisted together a brown-paper cigarette. “He was out of this town about half the night. He rode in about five an’ left his bronc back of Minnie’s. Make sense to you?”
“Horse over there now?”
Chavez shook his head. “That Mousetrap jigger come an’ got it about seven. Rubbed it off well as he could an’ told Fentriss he’d had it out for a gallop. I seen that caballo before this guy got to work an’ I’m tellin’ you it was rode hard.”
The most of Frank’s attention was still prowling the street, digging into alley mouths, probing black door holes. He couldn’t find one hostile sign but the threat of Tularosa, like a wildness, was all about him.
He wiped a dampness away from his lip and picked up his reins and told Chavez, “You keep your eyes peeled. I’m figuring to take a pasear out to Brackley’s.”
Chavez, staring over Frank’s shoulder, said, “Hasta luego. He goin’ with you?”
Frank, twisting, saw Kimberland on a powerful looking bay jogging leisurely toward the west end of town. With a growl he spurred after him, discovering another rider angling in at a lope. Frank overtook Kimberland at the edge of the lumber yard. W. T. nodded, pulled off his right glove and, fishing a pair of cigars from his shirt, passed one over. Frank bit the end off and accepted a light from Kimberland’s match.
The other rider came up, a grizzled looking man in dust-grimed range gear and, setting back his horse, inspected them like a cat with a knot in its tail. “Who’s goin’ to pay for all them shot cattle?”
“Take it easy,” Frank said. “You ain’t the only one hurt.”
“I’ll sue this damn town!” the man shouted. Frank remembered him then as one of the chair-warmers he’d encountered at Minnie’s. Gourd and Vine had lost a lot of stock, crippled and scattered, and you couldn’t much blame him for sounding a mite ringy.
Frank said, “You one of the owners?”
“Lassiter. Trail boss. I’ll spread the name of this — ”
“Friend,” Kimberland said, teeth champing his cigar, “let’s take a more charitable look at this deal.”
Frank, backing him up, said, “Your herd tore down a couple of business establishments and might have leveled the whole town if we hadn’t got them turned. We didn’t order that wind nor — ”
“Wind!” The man spat. “Them steers was spooked deliberate!” He shook a fist in Frank’s face. “Somebody’s goin’ to pay fer it!”
“If you’d kept your crew — ”
“Don’t give me that! I seen what happened. A bunch of guys come out of the dark flappin’ slickers. Draicup warned me what this country was like. You cigar-smokin’ bastards think all you got to do is scatter these drives an’ after they’ve gone you kin pick up the pie
ces!”
Frank said, “That’s pretty strong talk.”
“This geezer,” Lassiter said, “looks like that sonofabitch Kimberland I been hearin’ about. Draicup tol’ me if I got in trouble to yell. Man, they’re goin’ to hear me clean back to Corpus!” He spun his horse, glaring furiously, raked its flanks with the steel and tore off toward his camp.
Kimberland said, “He’ll cool. Draicup could be hitting these herds himself; he’s never too far when the cows start to run. But I don’t think it’s him. I think Gurden’s back of it. Chip and maybe — ” He eyed Frank inscrutably. “Here’s where I turn off. If you’re heading for Brackley’s — ” He let that go, too. “Frank, you’re doing allright. Don’t let nobody spook you.”
The sun was beginning really to bear down when Frank sighted Brackley’s buildings. He wasn’t surprised to see the wrinkle of smoke coming out of a stovepipe. The man had employed two riders on a year-round basis. Frank was surprised though when, in answer to his hail, the girl of the wagon stepped out of the house.
There were glints of burnished firelight in her hair. Frank was discovering what a girl with curves and a too direct look could do to a man. She had a rifle in her hands but when she saw who it was she leaned it against the weather-grayed wall and a gleam of interest came into her look. Her mouth curved into a slow smile. “Well!” She smoothed the skirt about her thighs and poked a hand at her hair. “You didn’t lose much time getting onto my trail.”
“What you doing here?” Frank asked suspiciously.
She said after a moment, “I could ask you the same. This ranch isn’t a part of your bailiwick.”
She wore a thin cotton print that displayed her figure with an almost insolent boldness. Her feet were bare but Frank was trying hard not to notice them. As though perceiving his discomfiture and divining the cause of it she laughed in a way that made his cheeks burn. “I’d of freshed up a little if I’d guessed you were coming.”
“Where’s the hands?” Frank asked, peering around from his saddle.
With that mop of red hair tumbled about her head she was still coolly watching when Frank pulled his glance back. “Seems they woke up to important business elsewhere when they found I was aimin’ to stay on here.”
Frank’s jaw dropped. The unbridled magnitude of this woman’s audacity seemed to have no parallel. By the shine of her eyes it was plain she was laughing, aware of his amazement and thoroughly enjoying it. Frank’s mouth tightened up. “You can’t stay here. This place belongs — ”
“I don’t expect he’ll be usin’ it.”
It was that easy indifference, her total disregard for established forms and conventions, that riled Frank the most. This was a man’s business here and she had no right mixing into it. Her eyes defied him to say so.
He said, trying to keep the outrage out of his voice, “Squatting’s one thing. Jumping preempted land — ”
“You’re wastin’ your time.”
Frank tried hard to hold onto his temper. “You don’t understand — ”
“Name’s Larren — Sandrey,” she said, her sage-colored eyes bold.
“The point — ” he began.
Again she cut him off, “Seems like Brackley mentioned — ”
“You know Jace?” Frank was astonished.
Her mouth widened again. Her hands strayed over her hips, bringing out more noticeably the wild grace and suppleness of that strong body. Then she was laughing up at him. “You might almost say I was Jace Brackley’s widow.”
• • •
Will Church left town in an ungovernable rage some half an hour ahead of Chip Gurden’s return from that mysterious ride Chavez had told Frank about. Will was shaking with fury and ran his horse the entire way, even flogging the foam-flecked animal around the last hairpin twist of the trail. Coming down off the slope about twelve minutes short of dawn he saw the black oblongs of his father’s headquarters buildings. The yellow squares of two lamplit windows proved Sam Church was already up. Will cursed viciously. Not one damned thing had come off as he had planned since he had tangled with Frank Carrico.
He’d got no satisfaction from Gurden. Frank had made a fool of him and those clabberheads he’d trusted with carrying out the stampede had run the goddam steers through town — or would have if Frank hadn’t broken it up. True, Will’s friends could still get away with some beef, but it had been Will’s intention to get Kimberland blamed. If the raid had been pulled off as planned, those stampeded steers would have been spread across Bar 40 and the shortages, when discovered, would have involved W. T. in more than just suspicion.
Will rowelled the staggering horse around the house, dropping off at the back porch, leaving the spent beast standing. Sari Church was bent over the stove frying mush; Sam was just sitting down. He started to work up a growl but Will cut him off.
“Get yourself another flunky — I’ve took all of your crap I’m takin’.” He sloshed coffee into a mug and was turning to put the pot back when his father said, glaring:
“If you’ve quit me again you’ll walk out of here strapped.”
“Strapped!” Will wheeled with such violence he lost half the cup’s contents. “All I ever been is strapped.” Then he grinned, maliciously enjoying this. “Frank quit our ranch. He’s already gone — and so are them cattle you had at Bospero Flats. They didn’t stray. I found horse tracks!”
Sam Church pushed away from the table. He was reaching for his gun belt from the back of the chair when Will said, “You might as well forget them. Frank’s packin’ Ashenfeldt’s star.” He laughed at his father’s expression. “Your good friend Kimberland has crossed us up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what it sounds like. He’s makin’ his push.”
Sam Church’s cheeks looked as gray as a bullet. “Where — ?”
“The best place to start,” Will said, “is Terrapin. Brackley was killed in town last night.”
Sam Church sagged back in his chair, mouth twitching. “The killer,” Sam said, “who done it?”
Will shrugged. “Who wanted that place? If you ain’t feelin’ up to it, I’ll ride over. Sooner we know how things stand, the better we’ll know how to cope with that pirate — wouldn’t surprise me at all to find he got those steers we had over at the Flats. It’s his badge Frank’s wearin’, an’ him that tolled Frank away from there.”
The old man seemed lost. “We better be gettin’ ourself’s some gun-hands — ”
“I’ll take care of that,” Will said.
“Where’ll you get ’em?”
“There’s guns around that can be picked up — ”
“Drifters! Saddle tramps!”
“What the hell you expect? A Wild Bill Hickok!”
“We could do with a few like him,” Church said, and Will secretly smiled. He reached over to the stove and filled his mug up again.
His mother said, “This grub’s gettin’ cold.” Neither of them paid her the slightest attention. Will and old Sam were staring hard at each other.
Will said, “I can get us a man that’s mighty near good as Hickok.”
Church snorted.
“Tularosa.” Will grinned.
Sam Church got halfway out of his chair. He let the shout that was in him fall back unuttered. He didn’t like any better than Will did Kimberland’s recent insulting demand that Will keep away from his daughter. His eyes turned craftily. In that moment he almost admired Will. “How much’ll it cost an’ how soon can we get him?”
Tularosa, Will was thinking, could iron out a lot of things. Including Chip Gurden, if he were offered enough. “If you’ll put up a thousand dollars — ”
Sam really unwound. He wasn’t half through when Will headed for the door. “Where you off to?” Sam shouted. Will took hold of the latch. Sam jumped to his feet. “Now you listen to me, boy — ”
“Don’t boy me!” Will whirled in mid-stride. His eyes glared like a crazy man’s. “Keep your damn mon
ey!” He slammed out of the house.
He wanted a fresh mount but rather than tote the saddle he dragged the reluctant roan he had ruined half across the hard-packed yard. Suddenly turning toward the horse with an almost incoherent fury, Will snatched up a length of chain off the ground and struck the horse over the head. The roan, screaming, reared back with bared teeth, showing the whites of his eyes. The reins were torn from Will’s hand.
But the horse was too hurt to get away from him. Doubling the chain Will leaped for him, cursing. The chain struck the horse back of the withers, dropping him. Making broken, piteous, whickering sounds, the horse staggered up with a heave and stood trembling. Will lashed out again. The horse screamed like a woman. He went down in the front, and then the whole of him was down.
Will watched for a moment the feeble scrabbling of hind legs, then flung the bloody chain at him. He was hunting around for something else to lay hand to when Sam came out of the house on the run. The old man stared at the horse then at Will. He saw the shocked faces watching Will from the cook shack. He said tiredly, “What kind of man are you?” and Will’s darting eyes, so frequently filled with affronted resentment, glared back with the look of a coiling snake.
“If I give you your way,” Sam Church said, hating the sound of it, “what guarantee — ”
Will, chopping him off, threw his shout at the men staring out of the cook shack. “Get away from that door!”
The faces faded. Will, breathing hard, walked up to his father, fists clubbed at his sides. “Take a look at yourself if you don’t like what you see, an’ then get out of my way. I’m through takin’ your orders. This ain’t the only big spread in the Panhandle. I can find other backers.”
Will’s head was filled with the sound of his voice. It seemed to travel all through him like the fire of raw whisky. He felt seven feet tall, rough as rock and twice as impregnable. Nothing could touch him. Nothing ever would again; and he wondered with a sense of incredulous astonishment why he had taken so long to break his father’s authority.
